


Stupid Human Tricks

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Gen, M/M, Not!Fic, Rookie Year, bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 23:23:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11565498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: Granderson is disappointed to find out that life with Zumaya isn’t much different than college life.





	Stupid Human Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> **Original notes:** Rookie year fic! I remember when I thought the three of them were going to tear up the league, win a bunch of World Series, and then ride off into the sunset together. _Sigh._
> 
> * * *
> 
> So I never finished this but I liked it enough to post it. None of you probably remember Zumaya but I loved him. He was great.
> 
> Him and Granderson lived together at one point during their rookie year, iirc. They were gonna get together in this but I stopped writing for a while and lost interest.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Granderson is disappointed to find out that life with Zumaya isn’t much different than college life. He’d been hoping there would be less boozing, less random chicks at all hours of the night. Less _frat boy_ and more _grown up shit_ but, hey.

They’re real honest-to-God _grown ups_ now, living in their own place with no parents or RAs to remind them to pick up after themselves or to pay the bills or to do all the difficult things for them. But Zumaya, who never went to college, is apparently dead set on making up for lost time.

A long-limbed blonde in a flimsy tank top and lacy boyshorts is digging around in the fridge. Granderson sighs and drags a hand over his eyes. Zumaya’s flavor of the week, no doubt. He’s starting to wish Zumaya’s girls came with nametags.

“Are you looking for something?” he asks, over a massive yawn. 

The girl shuts the fridge door, gasping and whirling around like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be. She straightens the thin straps of her tank top and giggles nervously. 

“Oh, sorry. Joel wanted a snack,” she says, flipping long blonde hair behind one bronzed shoulder.

Granderson rubs his eyes again. He can feel the beginnings of a headache between his eyes. “Can’t he get it himself?”

“He’s kinda tied up,” she says, picking up a canister of whipped cream and flipping it from hand to hand. She glances—in what she probably thinks is a meaningful manner—from the whipped cream to Granderson and back again.

He emphatically does _not_ want to know what that look means and he also emphatically does _not_ want to know what she plans on doing to Zumaya with the whipped cream. 

“Okay then,” he says. “Turn the light off when you’re done, uh . . .” He pauses, searching his mental Rolodex for a name. Nothing comes to mind.

“Chlöe,” she supplies, still playing with the canister of whipped cream.

“Chlöe,” Granderson echoes, eyeing it as she flips it from hand to hand. “Nice to meet you.” He offers her a tired smile.

Chlöe smiles back and saunters to the door. “Likewise.” She sashays her hips and heads down the hall for Zumaya’s bedroom.

After he hears the hiss-click of Zumaya’s bedroom door, Granderson retrieves his digital camera from his dresser drawer and pads back down the hall to Zumaya’s room. He pauses outside the door, hefting the weight of the camera in his hands, wondering if this could be considered stepping over the line. Sufficiently convinced that it _could_ be, Granderson gently nudges the door open.

Zumaya’s wrists and ankles are bound to the bedposts and he’s wearing nothing but a tiny leopard print thong. 

Granderson just can’t help himself. He drops the camera to the floor and starts cackling.

“What the—shut the door!” Zumaya tenses, tugging his wrists against the bedposts. “Dude, get the fuck outta here!”

Granderson slumps against the doorframe, gasping for breath. “You’re so lucky I dropped the camera, else this would’ve been all over my Facebook,” he laughs.

“Fuck! Where the fuck is Kelly?” Zumaya hollers, still tugging at the straps.

“You mean Chlöe?” Granderson’s laughing so hard he’s practically sobbing.

Chlöe bursts into the room behind Granderson, canister of whipped cream clutched in one hand and a leather whip in the other. “What’s going on?”

Granderson pushes himself away from the doorframe and stoops over to pick up his camera, which is now in pieces. “Nothing,” he says, chuckling and retreating to the door. “He’s all yours.”

Zumaya fights against his leather restraints, the muscles in his neck bulging. “I’m gonna end you, Granderson, if it’s the last thing I do,” he promises in a low growl, as Chlöe shuts the door behind them with a soft click. Granderson can hear her laughter through the door.

Granderson heads back down the hall to his own room and crawls into bed with a smile. 

He doesn’t have the pictures to prove it, but the look on Zumaya’s face is going to last him a lifetime.

-

Verlander leans casually against Zumaya’s locker stall, tapping the toe of his cleat against the carpeted floor. “So,” he says, picking at his cuticles. “Heard you were kinda tied up last night.”

Zumaya looks up and blinks. “Huh? How’d you— _Grandy_!” Zumaya jumps off of his stool and heads right for him. “You told him!”

Granderson ducks Zumaya’s outstretched arms with the agility of a boxer, giggling. “Can you honestly blame me?”

“ _Yes_!” Zumaya grabs Granderson in a headlock and grinds his knuckles into the top of his head. Granderson can’t stop giggling, and that just seems to make Zumaya angrier. He rubs Granderson’s face mercilessly into the carpet.

Verlander crouches in front of Zumaya’s locker, laughing hysterically, pounding his palms on the carpet like a boxing referee. “Say ‘uncle’, Grandy, say ‘uncle’!”

Granderson wriggles under Zumaya, trying to free himself, to no avail. “Mmph!”

“Whazzat?” Zumaya lets him up just a little bit.

Granderson raises his head. “I’m getting rug burn on my forehead.”

“Serves you right,” Zumaya grunts, shoving off Granderson and brushing his hands off on his knees.

“Aw man,” Verlander says with a pout. “You’re way too easy, Zumaya.” He pauses, a wicked grin cutting across his face like an upside down slider. “In more ways than one.”

Zumaya stomps over and takes a swipe at Verlander’s head, but he’s too quick for him. “Fuck you, man.” Zumaya glares at both of them. “Fuck all y’all.”

“Aw, c’mon, man. We’re just having some fun. And you gotta admit, it _is_ kinda funny,” Granderson says, pulling himself up off the ground and dusting his jersey off.

“Ain’t funny when _I’m_ the butt of all the jokes!” Zumaya says.

“It is for _us_.” Granderson beams.

“Y’all are assholes.” Zumaya sits in front of his locker and continues to pout.

Verlander slinks over and pulls up a stool next to him. “Every guy wishes he had it that good, Zumaya,” he says, feigning a somber, conciliatory tone. He puts a hand on Zumaya’s shoulder and gives him a serious look that’s betrayed by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Zumaya rolls his eyes and shrugs Verlander’s hand off his shoulder. He pulls his glove out of his locker and punches a fist into it. “Whatever, dude.”

Granderson chuckles. “C’mon, man, lighten up.”

“You know this is just gonna be another funny story you tell to someone else in a couple of months,” Verlander says, patting him on the shoulder again.

“Fuck, man, that ain’t what—oh, forget it.” Zumaya waves them both off dismissively and stands, slapping his glove against his thigh. “Ain’t important.”

Granderson lopes up behind him and drapes an arm around his shoulders. “No hard feelings, Zoom?”

Zumaya heaves a put-upon sigh and allows Granderson to keep his arm around his shoulders. “Okay, fine. We’re cool,” he mutters, nudging Granderson aside. Zumaya heads for the field, head bowed, grumbling to himself under his breath.

Verlander kicks Granderson lightly in the ankle and he looks down. “Yeah?” Granderson asks.

Verlander breaks into a big, mischievous grin. “You absolutely _sure_ you didn’t get anything on your camera?”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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